Boys and aeroplanes
A memory of Sutton Park which I retain is that of Sunday afternoons in the mid to late 1940s when a large crowd of model aeroplane enthusiasts used to descend on an area of golf fairway to try out the product of their weekday endeavours. Where was it? The memory grows dim - perhaps somewhere between the Streetly Gate and Keeper's and not far from Rowton's Cottage (if that makes sense). Surrounded by expanses of heather above which the skylarks used to hover and trill. In the distance, on the other side of the adjacent road, was a huge tract of land still under wartime cultivation.
The aircraft were to a ten or eleven-year-old a wonder to behold. All made of balsa wood and covered with doped tissue paper and painted in bright colours to make them easier to spot in the surrounding vegetation. No replicas of real aircraft; they were just designed for flight as gliders or propeller-driven machines powered by elastic. Their owners, conscious of their fragility, watched enthusiastic schoolboy onlookers carefully and warned them off if there appeared to be any likelihood of touching.
Gliders would be launched by a tow-rope, hauled by the owner's assistant who would run for all he was worth until the plane reached its full height and then the line would detach and fall to earth whilst it went on its way. Usually the rudder would be set so that the course was a gentle circling one, ensuring that the eventual landing point was not too far distant. The more sophisticated models had a timer and after an allotted period this would displace the tail-plane and the aircraft would slowly return to earth in a slow, diving and bucking rhythm. Sometimes neither of these stratagems would work and the glider would escape and gradually disappear over a distant horizon, pursued by its owner on pushbike or motorcycle. If he was lucky he would find and recover it in a distant part of the park or even beyond the boundary, in someone’s back garden. If it disappeared without trace he would then have to rely on the honesty of the finder as, like all the other owners, he would have ensured that his name and address was clearly marked on his property.
The rubber-powered models ran the same risk, but to a lesser extent because their flights tended to be shorter and the plane was heavier and less designed to soar. The flight would be prefaced by a patient winding-up of the elastic by hand, the propeller being moved by a finger in the wrong direction, for perhaps 100 or 200 revolutions. The more organised owners would use a hand drill which locked onto the propeller and speeded up the process significantly. Sometimes the whole nose assembly would be pulled away from the fuselage whilst the frantic winding of the handle by the assistant went on. This ensured an even twisting of the multi-stranded elastic down its full length. Then the owner, holding the prop., would lift his precious machine over his head, point it into the wind and after releasing it with a gentle forward movement watch it admiringly as it whirred up into the air.
The fragile construction of these machines meant that the frequent mishaps were often serious. A major crash would be catastrophic and the destruction complete. Little would remain. The wings, which were held on by rubber bands and were designed to fly off on impact, might occasionally be recoverable but the rest would be matchwood. A less severe impact would often shred the highly-doped and brittle surfaces. But there were always another seven evenings without TV during which to put matters right or to complete the next model.
Early on there was the very occasional appearance of a machine of incredible sophistication and size with a tiny petrol engine complete with spark plug and large battery. And eventually the first attempts at a crude form of wireless and the first small diesel, both of which of course transformed the hobby in the following years. The Mecca for many of these enthusiasts was, I imagine, The Model Aerodrome at the top of Cherry Street. I used to gaze longingly in at the window of this wonderful shop and even remember seeing there a lethal looking rocket engine which was claimed to give speeds of 100 m.p.h.
Somewhere around the end of the 1940s the centre of activity was moved, perhaps because of pressure from the golf club. The approved site then became an open, bleak tract of rolling parkland near to Banner’s Gate, the old tank testing area, much less attractive and intimate but which still used to draw large numbers of participants and onlookers.
With the change of venue my interest started to fade – or not so much fade as be replaced by other priorities. Now, when I go to the summer gatherings at RAF Cosford and see a flight of Wellingtons overhead, or a Sabre performing aerobatics with even the right noise, or an exquisitely detailed Sopwith Pup, or a Lancaster with an 18ft wingspan, the days of balsa and tissue paper and skylarks hovering over the heather seem far, far away.
Chris
I usually fell off. Taboggan down Holly Knoll skate on Blackroot. Fish in a punt on Bracebridge........oh I could go on forever....some say I do
..........Jealous i bet you are
